


Eight Bells

by Xyletic



Category: Mass Effect
Genre: Biotics, M/M, Mass Effect 3 spoilers, PTSD
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2012-09-27
Updated: 2014-03-12
Packaged: 2017-11-14 08:55:03
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 13
Words: 14,602
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/513491
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Xyletic/pseuds/Xyletic
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>John Shepard/Cortez fics.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. It's The Little Things

It's the feeling of hunger, more than anything else, that tells John he's really home again. He hasn't had all that much opportunity to use his biotics over the past months, aside from the 'practice sessions' he was allowed a few times a week (which consisted mainly of lifting pre-approved weights and were slightly less engaging than watching paint dry), and his appetite shrank accordingly.

On the shuttle back from Palaven's moon, though, it returns in full force. His stomach twists and gives an accusatory grumble that he fervently hopes Primarch Victus couldn't hear over the engines; he feels the familiar trembling start in his fingertips, and a few minutes back onto the _Normandy_ light-headedness starts to set in.

He spends most of the debriefing with the Primarch standing at parade rest, hands clasped behind his back, to keep the shaking from being _too_ obvious. Normally, he would have eaten by now. His old instructors would throw a fit if they saw him letting the symptoms get this far.

It doesn't help that the refit throws obstacles in his path at every turn as he tries to get back to his cabin after the debriefing. He shifts impatiently from foot to foot while the scanner in front of the war room takes an eternity to determine that _yes_ , he is in fact the captain of this vessel and _no,_ he isn't carrying any weapons.

“Sorry, sir.” one of the guards – Westmoreland - says as the scanning field fades. “We never did manage to get the system calibrated properly.”

The temptation to make a joke about Garrus, which neither of the guards would understand anyway, is outweighed by John's overwhelming hunger. He nods at Westmoreland, strides through the CIC and takes the elevator up to his cabin.

Old habits die hard; he bought meal replacement bars on their brief visit to the Citadel and stored them in his quarters. (Biotics are probably the only people in the entire Alliance who can boast that they're actively _encouraged_ to hoard food.) He takes four from the bedside drawer and peels the wrappers back before wolfing them down, one after the other.

That takes the edge off, although not by much. The L5 implants he's carrying now might have a lot more kick than his old L3s, but the trade-off for the extra power is increased demands on his system after heavy use and an appetite that would raise even Kaidan's eyebrows. _  
_

 _Kaidan._ John's been trying not to think about that too much; he pushes away the image of his old friend lying limp in the medbay and stands up as the light-headedness recedes slightly. He's eaten more than a third of the bars he bought, and he likes to keep some back for emergencies, so there's only one place on the ship left to go.

 

Ten minutes later, John stands back and surveys the food arrayed on the kitchen counter critically. Large protein shake, seven egg sandwiches, beef stew MRE...

It looks good, but there's one thing missing.

He rummages in the cupboards above the sink and brings out the red bottle that Joker gave him as a welcome-back present of sorts. (Sometimes it's good to have crew members who know you almost as well as they think they do.) The rooster on the label is like an old friend by now; the sauce has seen him through countless deployments, although telling some of his friends in boot camp about its _other_ name wasn't the best idea.

He probably shouldn't be doing this, he reflects as he upends the bottle over the sandwiches. Peppers speed up the metabolism, something he really doesn't need right now (if ever.). But it's been six months of bland Alliance rations, and depriving someone of sriracha for half a year should be a crime in itself. Plus he never got to sit down and enjoy his first meal as a newly-free man, what with the mad dash between Mars, the Citadel and Menae.

Conscience neatly assuaged, he puts the bottle back in the cupboard and takes his tray over to the officers' table. The first bite of sandwich is ambrosia; sriracha can make even rehydrated eggs taste good. John makes an inarticulate noise of pleasure and takes another bite-

“You really gonna eat all that, Commander?” Vega's tone is one of mildly amused respect.

It's one of the questions John's heard a thousand times over the years, from subordinates and superiors alike, along with: _How much do you eat? Why do you need to eat that much? What's the thing on the back of your head for?_

He swallows. “Wouldn't have made it if I wasn't, Lieutenant.”

“Biotics need more food than grunts like you, Mr Vega. Right, Commander?” Cortez asks.

John nods, surprised. “You've served with us before?”

“Once or twice. Never for long, though.”

“They like to keep us spread out across the fleet.” John engulfs another sandwich in two bites and reaches for his protein shake.

There were six biotics on the last tour, he remembers with a slight pang. That meant five other people who wouldn't ask awkward questions or stare at plates piled high with food. It might not seem like much, but he got so used to it that being the only biotic on board (apart from Liara, of course) is going to be very strange for a while.

Still, he has his ship and two of his friends back, and a chance to make a difference in the war. That's more than worth a little strangeness. And he has sriracha; even the Reapers couldn't ruin that for him.

It's the little things that make life worth living.


	2. Gravity

“ _Lieutenant!”_

Victus plummets towards him, and Shepard reacts without thinking. Power flares along his skin; he takes a step forward and flings out his arm in a mnemonic learned lifetimes ago.

His biotic field takes Victus's weight. Shepard grunts at the sudden strain and draws his arm back sharply, jerking the lieutenant out of harm's way a split second before the bomb crashes down into the crater beneath.

The explosion is a dull roar he feels through the soles of his boots. Flames billow up from the crater, but he barely takes any notice of them. Victus has started to struggle against the grip of his biotics, twisting and turning in the mass-negating field.

The last thing Shepard needs is to drop the Primarch's son to his death.

“Stay still, lieutenant!” he barks. Victus doesn't listen; if anything, he struggles harder and Shepard feels his grip starting to slip. There's nothing else for it. He flexes his hand, feeling the answering pulse of his biotics, and _pulls_. Victus drifts over the flames in a graceful arc, still writhing. When he's above solid ground, Shepard brings him down to a safe height and lets the field go. The lieutenant hits the dirt in a puff of dust and a tangle of limbs.

“Nice catch, Commander.” Vega says with a touch of admiration in his voice. Garrus doesn't say anything; he's staring at the bomb crater with his mandibles tight against his face and something unreadable in his eyes. Shepard decides not to interrupt him and strides over to check on Victus, who's still lying on the ground.

“Everything alright?” he asks, extending a hand. Victus ignores it, gets to his feet shakily, and stands with his head down for long enough that Shepard starts to worry.

“Lieutenant Victus?” he presses gently.

 

Victus looks up. Anger and sorrow are written plain on his face.

“You should have let me fall.”

Shepard sighs. Some days he thinks he has a grasp on the turian sense of honour, and then something like this happens.

“I don't let people die when I can help it, Victus.” he says flatly, biting back his irritation. It's easy to forget that he's the only one who _knows_ what it's like to die.

“I would have been remembered as a soldier who completed his mission. Not a failure who got his entire platoon killed.”

“Maybe. But that failure isn't on you. It's on the person who put you in a position you aren't qualified for.”

“My father-”

“Already thanked me for saving your life once. I'm pretty sure he'll be happy to take some political heat if it means getting his son back in one piece.”

Victus opens his mouth as though he's about to say something else, then closes it. The stricken expression is still on his face.

Shepard softens his tone. “The bomb's disarmed, lieutenant. The Ninth Platoon did their duty. Come on.”

Victus resists for a moment, glancing around the battlefield. Shepard follows his gaze; when it lands on a limp turian body, he feels a stab of pity. Incompetent soldiers are still soldiers, after all. He puts a hand on Victus's shoulder.

“We can arrange for them to be picked up.” Even as he says it, he wonders where the bodies will go afterwards. He knows turians cremate their war dead, but even a well-oiled machine like the Hierarchy must be hard-pressed to keep up with demand these days.

He pushes that thought to the back of his mind. “Come on. Let's get back to the Normandy.”

 

 

When Shepard enters the war room, followed by Victus, the Primarch looks up sharply. His gaze goes straight to his son, and his mandibles flare wide for a moment before drawing back against his jaw.

Victus stands to attention at the top of the steps and salutes. “Sir.”

Shepard's gotten pretty good at reading turian faces over the last couple of years. Right now, he wishes he hadn't; the sheer relief in the older turian's expression makes him feel as though he's intruding on something private.

“At ease.” the Primarch says curtly. He turns to Shepard. “Commander...thank you. I'd like a moment to speak with my son.”

“Of course."

Shepard heads for the comm room and activates the link to Hackett. He tries to ignore the low voices coming from behind him, but it isn't easy; his hearing's a lot better than it used to be thanks to the Cerberus enhancements, and he catches far more of the hissed conversation than he'd like.

Hackett's projection appears on the comm display. “Something to report, Commander?”

“Yes, sir. We disarmed the bomb on Tuchanka. The turian platoon was wiped out, but the Primarch's son is safe.”

“Good work. If Cerberus had gotten their hands on that bomb, it would have been a disaster for the alliance.”

Shepard hears the war room door open. Heavy, thudding footsteps shake the metal floor.

“The genophage wasn't enough? You had to plant a _bomb_ on my planet?”

Speaking of a disaster...

“Sounds like you've got a situation on your hands, Commander. I'll let you get to it.”

“Thank you, sir. I'll forward my report later.”

 

Hackett's projection flickers and goes dark. Shepard takes a deep breath before striding into the fray.

“The decision was made hundreds of years ago. So much has changed!”

“Not enough to tell us about the bomb, coward!” There are blue sparks crackling along Wrex's skin, and he looks bigger than ever as he paces the room restlessly. Shepard hasn't seen him this angry since Virmire.

He has every right to that anger, but the rising tension is dangerous; if it snaps, someone is going to get hurt. Shepard steps into the middle of the room, placing himself between Wrex and the Primarch.

“ _Enough.”_ He doesn't yell the word – yelling in this kind of situation usually means you've lost control – but he puts enough force behind it that their attention is caught. “The bomb is disarmed. There's no point arguing over it now. If we work together, we have a chance of winning this. If not, the Reapers kill us separately. Your choice.”

For a moment, Shepard thinks it isn't going to work. Then Wrex rumbles “Fine. We have stronger enemies to face. But you pull another stunt like that, _Primarch,_ and the alliance is off.” His red eyes flick to Victus, who's still standing at the top of the steps. “Then maybe you'll find out what it's like to mourn a son.”

He turns his back and stumps over to one of the data feeds. The tension in the air eases a little, although it doesn't disappear entirely; probably nothing short of a miracle would manage that.

Shepard lets out a breath.

“Lieutenant, there are dextro rations in the Normandy's kitchen if you're hungry.”

Victus takes the hint. He salutes his father once more and leaves the war room, giving Wrex a wide berth.

“If you'll excuse me, Primarch...”

Victus inclines his head. “Of course, Commander.”

 

 Wrex doesn't look up from the data feed as Shepard approaches.

“Might have been nice to know about the turian doomsday bomb on my planet. _Before_ it almost blew up my planet.”

“If I'd known it was turian, I would have told you myself. I only found out when we were headed to disarm it.”

“They were keeping secrets from you too? All that 'honour' they go on about, and they still can't resist stabbing people in the back.”

“You've survived clan politics for two years, Wrex. I bet you've seen more than your fair share of secret-keeping and backstabbing.”

“Nothing like this.” Wrex steps back from the console, looking directly at Shepard. “There are dozens of clans living in the Kelphic Valley. If that thing had gone off....”

“I wasn't about to let that happen.”

“Good. We're close to giving my people their future back. Nothing can stand in the way of that.”

“Agreed.”

Wrex claps a heavy hand on his shoulder. “Glad to hear it. For a minute back there, I thought you might be turning into a politician.”

Shepard shudders exaggeratedly. “God, I hope not. I've seen enough of them to last me a lifetime.”

Wrex's grin is wide and toothy. “You'll see plenty more before the war is out.”

“Don't remind me. So...are you and the Primarch good? For now, at least.”

They both glance at the turian hunched over the central display. Wrex hesitates for a moment before saying “Good might be pushing it. I won't forget today, but I can work with him. Just keep that son of his out of my sight.”

“Not a problem.” Shepard reassures him. The Primarch might not like Victus being restricted to the crew deck, but there's no democracy on a warship; it's Shepard's boat and his rules.

“I'd better get back to it. The clans are reporting more Reaper scout activity. Damn squid are up to something.”

“Same here. Talk to you later?”

“If the salarian doesn't want another tissue sample.”

 

After the testosterone-equivalent charged air of the war room, the mess hall is peaceful by comparison. Shepard picks up a plate full of mystery meat and takes a seat at the officers' table, delving into his food with enthusiasm and a certain amount of scientific curiosity.

He's inspecting the gelatinous lump speared on the end of his fork carefully (there are some things even a former street kid is wary of eating) when James thumps down into the seat opposite him.

“Hell of a day, Loco.” he says by way of greeting. “I was just telling Esteban what happened at the bomb site. Figured you could fill in the rest of the details.”

“Maybe _after_ we've eaten, Mr Vega.” Cortez says, taking his usual seat beside James. He nods at Shepard. “Evening, Commander.”

Shepard missed the little things, like simple mess hall conversation, more than he realised when he was in Vancouver. Nobody here is trying to pry Cerberus secrets he doesn't possess out of him; it's good just to talk and listen without feeling like he has to be on his guard. By the end of the meal, he's more content than he has been in months.

It's good to be home.


	3. Connect The Dots

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Takes place post-Tuchanka and the Citadel coup.

John may not be able to see the drive core from Life Support any more, but he can still hear it. The constant low hum from the Tantalus permeates the whole ship. It's a comforting sound, a reminder that the Normandy is still running smoothly.

He doesn't know how long he's been sitting here listening to it, although he's dimly aware that his coffee mug has gone cold between his hands. It seems somehow wrong to bring coffee in here, but he couldn't find any tea leaves in the kitchen cupboards; he suspects that Chakwas or Traynor may have appropriated them all.

The room is gleaming, sterile, and empty. There are no immaculately maintained rifles in the racks on the wall and no neatly-stacked datapads on the table. Time and the Alliance retrofit have erased all traces of the room's previous occupant, leaving only John's memories.

He put Thane's plaque up himself earlier, sliding it in beside Mordin's. The final little _click_ it made when it slid home still rings in his ears. He's lost two good friends inside of a week, and there are still so many empty spaces on the memorial wall.

John resolves to do something about the wall at the first opportunity. Remembering the fallen is all well and good, but having that grey monolith be the first thing you see when stepping onto the crew deck isn't the best way to keep morale up. Maybe he'll pick up some flowers (not wreaths, that would be even worse) and ask EDI to remind him to keep them watered.

A quiet knock on the door brings him out of his thoughts. He calls 'Enter', wondering how anyone knows he's in here; a moment later the door slides open to reveal Cortez holding two steaming mugs of coffee.

"Everything okay, Shepard?"

Cortez's smile is warm and sympathetic (and his eyes are _astonishing_ , a long-neglected part of John's subconscious pipes up.)  
"Yeah. I wouldn't mind some company, though." He gestures for Cortez to take the seat across from him.

"You've been in here a while. Trying to avoid Allers?"  
John glances at his watch and is startled to realise that he's been sitting here for almost three hours.

"No. Just...thinking about a friend."

Cortez passes one of the mugs over to him. Their hands brush briefly, and a small spark of static jumps between them.

"Sorry about that."

John usually remembers to ground himself every once in a while by touching conductive surfaces on the ship. It's one of the most common tics biotics develop, since most people don't enjoy getting a surprise when they shake hands.

  
"No problem, Commander. I used to work construction. I barely notice little shocks like that any more."

 There's comfortable silence for a moment as they both sip their coffee. It's standard-issue shipboard tar, but after nearly eleven years in the Alliance John's used to it.

"The news didn't mention what happened to your friend."

John takes a gulp of his drink, giving himself time to think how best to reply. He pushes away the raw memory of Thane gasping for breath in a hospital bed and settles for the simplest answer he can give.  
"He died in Huerta Memorial."  
"I'm sorry to hear that, sir. Garrus told me a lot about him. He sounds like a good man."  
"He was."

John can feel himself relaxing and settling back into the seat, despite the subject matter. He doesn't get to just sit down and talk like this very often. "Not exactly what I expected from an assassin, but we got along well."

Better than well, but it's far easier to say that than describe conversations that often went on well into the night and biotic sparring matches that honed John's abilities to a razor edge. John isn't prepared for the sudden sadness that washes over him at those memories. He swallows the rest of his coffee and cradles the still-warm mug between his hands, not trusting himself to speak more just yet.

Instead, he studies the man opposite him.

It would be a lie to say he's never noticed how handsome Steve is. John is painfully aware of the hollows under his own eyes and his scruffy five o'clock shadow (more like ten o'clock shadow right now, since he didn't have time to shave this morning.) He knows he's not going to have people knocking down his door to hand him modelling contracts any time soon. Steve, though, is another story. Dark skin, perfect cheekbones and those eyes...

 _Eyes you could drown in_ , his subconscious helpfully supplies. John could kick himself. When did he start thinking in the worst kind of cliches?  
Oh. **Oh**.

Shit.

 

Cortez is still sipping his coffee, apparently oblivious to the epiphany happening across the table. John loosens his sudden death grip on his mug and tries to think.

How often has he been going down to the shuttle bay just to talk to Steve? Has this been obvious to everyone except himself? Is there any way to bring this up in conversation without looking like a puppy-eyed idiot with a crush?

...When did he start calling Cortez 'Steve'?

Shit.

 Alright. Step one: admit you have a problem. Step two...

"I should probably get going, or I'll be late for my shift." Steve gets up from the chair and stretches, giving John a _very_ good view of his fatigues pulling tight over lean muscle.  
"Good talking to you." John says, suddenly dry-mouthed.

  
"Likewise, Shepard."

Steve picks up his mug and heads for the door. John keeps his gaze fixed firmly on the man's upper back, determined not to embarrass himself any further; he's glad of it when Steve turns around.

"I was thinking I might hit a nightclub next time we dock at the Citadel. You should join me."

John manages to mumble something positive in response. When the door shuts behind Steve, he drops his head into his hands and groans.

It's been years since he's had to deal with anything like this. His last boyfriend was before he was assigned to the SR-1, and through the whole Saren and Cerberus and house arrest debacles he never really had _time_ to develop feelings for anyone. (His brief, unreciprocated infatuation with Kaidan doesn't count, he decides after a moment's consideration.)

A crush on a subordinate. What would Anderson say? On second thought, that's not helpful. Anderson's been nagging him for years to find some kind of life outside work; the admiral would probably crack a bottle of champagne to celebrate.

Back to step one.


	4. Define Dancing

John knows he's made the right choice in clothes when he gets a whistle and a ' _Damn_ , Loco' from Vega as he passes through the mess hall.

He pauses by the officers' table and raises an eyebrow at the young marine. “Something to say, Lieutenant?”

Vega grins. “Already said it, sir. _Damn_. You should wear this kind of stuff more often.”

John doesn't think Hackett would appreciate him showing up for briefings in a leather jacket, jeans, and a t-shirt, even if the jacket _does_ have an N7 brand on it. Still, a compliment is a compliment.

“Got a hot date lined up?” Vega's grin broadens, becoming sly. For someone who can thrash Kaidan Alenko at any card game he cares to name (no easy feat), the lieutenant has an awful poker face.

“Maybe.” John allows. He glances around the mess, noting that the number of suspiciously busy people seems to have grown since this conversation began. Chakwas even has the med bay door open, no doubt to allow the fresh air to circulate.

“Well, don't let me keep you.” Vega spears a quivering forkful of mystery meat as John turns to leave, but can't resist a parting jab.

“Esteban's probably halfway there by now.”

 

 

Purgatory is buzzing, packed with party-goers and soldiers on shore leave. When John finally spots Steve in the crowd at the upper bar he tries to make his way over as gracefully as possible, but a few feet get trodden on along the way.

“Shepard, you made it! Come have a drink with me.”

If John didn't already know how badly he's got it for this man, the flutter in his stomach at Steve's smile would have been a dead give-away. He takes the glass the bartender slides to him and downs the shot in one gulp, hoping the alcohol will chase away the sudden case of dry mouth he seems to have developed.

It doesn't work. Non-krogan liquor does next to nothing for him these days (thank you _very_ much, Cerberus) and setting off radiological alarms isn't high on his priority list for this evening. Dutch courage is out, then.

He sets the glass back down and leans on the bar, giving Steve his full attention.

“I wouldn't have thought a place like this would be to your tastes.” The second the comment is out of his mouth, he regrets it. What does he know about Steve's taste in clubs, anyway?

Steve shrugs, drawing John's attention to the broad span of his shoulders under the fatigues.

“The music's good and the alcohol isn't _too_ watered down. What's not to like?” His gaze drifts to a soldier dancing at the edge of the crowd. “The eye candy isn't too shabby either.”

John draws himself up to his full height, folding his arms across his chest.

“I'm hurt. Why aren't you looking over here?”

“Who says I'm not?” The look Steve gives him is frank and appreciative. “As far as I know, you've never been with anyone.”

“It's been a long time.” John admits. “I guess I've been waiting for the right moment with the right man.”

“Oh _really?”_

For someone who hasn't done anything like this in years, John thinks, he's doing a pretty damn good job.

 “Dance with me.”

_Oh God. Abort. Abort!_

“I...uh, I'm really not a good dancer.Two left feet and all that. Probably best if we just stay right here.”

Understatement of the century. John's dancing is rightly mocked by everyone who's ever seen it. _Grunt_ has a better sense of rhythm than him. Hell, there are primordial creatures living in hydrothermal vents with better rhythm.

Steve's voice drops lower. “Come on, John. Don't let me slip away.” He turns and makes his way into the crowd. John follows reluctantly, treading on a few unwitting people's toes.

Well, it was good while it lasted, he supposes. Hysterical laughter isn't the _worst_ way this could end.

Steve's already dancing when John catches up to him. Mercifully, the floor's too crowded for John to really embarrass himself; extending his arms too far would mean smacking several people in the face.

He starts with a stilted, off-beat shuffle, as slow as he can manage without making it obvious he isn't actually dancing _per se._ A few seconds in, he sees Steve's expression change and braces himself.

“You weren't kidding, were you?” Steve is smiling, but there's no mockery in it.

John shakes his head mutely.

“We can stop, if you want.”

 John gratefully subsides. For a moment, there's nothing but the pounding of the house beat while he tries to figure out what to say. _I warned you_ doesn't seem appropriate, somehow.

“You know, it's good to see you like this.” Steve remarks off-handedly, as though he hasn't just watched a grown man make a complete fool out of himself on the dance floor. At John's raised eyebrow, he clarifies “Relaxing, I mean. I'm used to watching you run straight off the shuttle into hell.”

He hesitates before adding “I worry about you. Whether you'll make it back in one piece...if you'll make it back at all.”

“I didn't know you cared.”

“I do. You've been there for me, John. You're a good friend.”

 

John takes a steadying breath.

He killed a Reaper on foot. He punched a yahg in the face twice. He beat _death_. He can say a few words and handle the possibility of rejection.

“I'd like to be more than just friends, Steve.”

There. It's out, and Steve hasn't pulled back or excused himself yet. In fact, he looks intrigued. “I thought there was something between us, but I was afraid it might just be hope...”

“It isn't.”

Steve takes John's hands, pulling him in closer. “Good.” he murmurs.

 The kiss makes John's toes curl in his boots. A brief, uncontrolled flicker of blue ripples across his skin, but Steve either doesn't notice or doesn't care. He moves his hands to John's shoulders, kneading the muscle through the thin material of the t-shirt and jacket.

When they eventually pull apart, John has to blink a few times before Steve comes back into focus, those gorgeous eyes and that _smile_ mere inches away.

He gives a long, shaky exhale. “...Wow.”

Steve laughs, low and velvety. The sound goes straight to John's gut.

“Today is a good day.”


	5. Order

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Crossposted from Tumblr.

For once, John doesn’t mind the abysmal slowness of the Citadel elevators. It’s hard to pay much attention to that (or anything else, for that matter) when Steve has him pressed up against the wall with one hand on his waist and the other curved around the back of his neck, lightly tracing the raised edges of his amp jack.

Dazedly, John wonders where Steve picked up that little trick. Their lips meet again, and he shivers. It’s been so damn long since he’s done anything like this. He’d intended to take it slow, to give Steve time to figure out what he needed and space to back out if necessary; as good as that kiss in Purgatory felt, he doesn’t want to rush things or take advantage.

Steve apparently has other ideas. The hand on John’s waist slides around to the small of his back, then further down, and squeezes; John arches into the touch and makes a small, involuntary sound, pulling Steve closer against him. He’s aware that there are flickers of biotic energy crawling across his skin, but that seems distant and unimportant compared to the deep, urgent kisses -

‘ _Arriving at Docking Bay D24_.’ Avina chirps. Reluctantly, they disentangle. Steve rises up onto his toes to press another kiss to John’s cheek just before the elevator door slides open, and doesn’t even flinch when a spark of static jumps between them.

They cross the docking bay together. John’s aware that he’s grinning like a fool, but he can’t help it. Even if nothing else happens tonight, he can carry the memory of these moments to make whatever lies ahead a little easier; the war isn’t going anywhere any time soon.

After a quick glance around to make sure they aren’t being watched, he extends his hand. Steve takes it without hesitation. Even the sensation of his rough thumb rubbing against John’s knuckles sends a thrill through his belly. It really has been too damn long.

 

When they finally clear decon and step onto the Normandy’s bridge, it’s all but deserted. A quick glance into the helm reveals that even Joker’s seat is empty.

“Must be taking advantage of shore leave.” John has to resist the urge to whisper; seeing all of the empty stations reminds him uncomfortably of returning to the ship after the Collector attack.

_‘Good evening, Shepard. Lieutenant Cortez.’_   EDI’s voice makes them both jump.

John clears his throat. “Evening, EDI. You’re, uh, not on the ship, are you?”

_‘I am always on the ship. If you are referring to my body, it is currently on the Presidium with Jeff.’_

“Oh, good - for you, I mean.”

_‘Yes. We are discussing the relative merits of various Galaxy of Fantasy classes while I perform routine system maintenance.’_

John can see Steve biting his lip to hold back laughter.

_‘The maintenance includes the security feeds in the commanding officer’s quarters. I expect them to be offline for several hours.’_

Of all the perils John expected to face in this war, a matchmaking AI did not feature highly on the list. He manages “Thank you for the information, EDI.” and hears Steve give an undignified snort of laughter beside him.

_‘Have a pleasant evening.’_

“You too.” John says somewhat weakly. She doesn’t respond to that, but he has a sneaking suspicion she’s still listening.

He turns to Steve and debates with himself for a moment. Should he attempt to be suave, or go the other way and try one of the lines that made Ash almost give herself a laughter-induced hernia back on the SR-1? In the end it’s the thought of Ash that decides him. He takes a breath and says “So … want to come up and see my model ships?”

 

“I can’t believe you actually have a model ship collection.” Steve says a few minutes later. He’s practically leaning over the desk to get a better view of the glass display cases, and John takes a moment to admire the view from this angle.

“What, you thought I was feeding you a line?” He presses his hand over his heart in mock indignation. “I’m hurt.”

“Did you put all of these together yourself?”

John shrugs. “In my spare time, yeah. I like having something to do with my hands.”

“Oh, really?” Steve turns to face him; his smile makes John’s breath catch in his throat. “I like a man who’s good with his hands.” Now who’s using the lines? John thinks, but he doesn’t get the chance to say it out loud because Steve crosses the distance between them in two strides and walks him back against the fishtank. The height difference between them means Steve has to stand on his toes to kiss him; normally John doesn’t mind that in his partners, but he’s feeling impatient tonight. He slides his hands down Steve’s waist and around to the backs of his thighs, gets a good grip (not to mention a decent handful of the firm flesh under the fatigues) and lifts.

Cybernetic strength has its advantages. Steve isn’t exactly lightweight, but John lifts him without strain and holds him up effortlessly at eye level. Just like with the biotic spark earlier, Steve doesn’t flinch or try to get away; instead, he takes advantage of the new position and the fact that he now has his hands free to tease John, feathering the lightest of touches around his amp. John shudders and bites his lip, feeling biotics roll across his skin in flickering waves. Everyone with an amp eventually learns how sensitive the area around it is. Some people don’t like the feeling, but there was this girl from Bekenstein who could do astonishing things with her tongue…

The sensation stops abruptly. John makes a protesting sound and Steve laughs, deep and warm. “Sorry. Figured I needed my hands for this part.” He hooks his legs around John’s waist and braces himself, tugging his shirt over his head before flinging it to one side. His nipples harden quickly in the cool air of the cabin; John lowers his head to mouth at them, wishing he had his own hands free so he could do more. It’s frustrating not to be able to touch Steve’s chest when it’s _right there_ in front of him.

Steve seems to sense the difficulty. “You’re overdressed.” he says, grasping the hem of John’s shirt and starting to pull it up.

John freezes. In the rush of happiness and arousal, he’s forgotten about the scars.

 

“Wait.” he blurts out. It’s the wrong thing to say, but he has to say something before all of this is ruined. Steve looks anxious and his hands have moved back to his sides, which is the exact opposite of where John wants them to be.

“Is something wrong, Shepard?”

“No. God, no. It’s just…you might want to leave that on.” Concern is plain on Steve’s face. John doesn’t want to have to bring Cerberus, of all things, into the middle of foreplay, but there doesn’t seem to be a choice.

“The surgery that put me back together left a lot of scars behind. It’s not exactly pretty under there.” Understatement of the galactic standard year, right there. It seems to ease Steve’s mind somewhat, though; he leans forward and kisses John full on the mouth, deeply and hungrily. When they part, he rests their foreheads together. “I’m not going to be put off by a few scars, Shepard.”

John opens his mouth to protest that it isn’t a _few_ scars, then closes it again. One way or another, this is going to happen. Best to get it over with quickly. He takes a steadying breath, puts Steve down gently on the floor, and pulls his shirt over his head before tossing it aside and watching Steve’s reaction.

 

He knows what it looks like. The Lazarus Project scars are neat and surgical, but that doesn’t make them any less grotesque; the faint red light that still shines through some of them is a reminder of the machinery that lurks under his skin. The Y-cut that runs from his armpits to his navel makes him look even more like something out of a penny dreadful, and that’s not to mention the scars he’s picked up fighting Collectors and Reapers. He might heal inhumanly fast, but it still takes its toll in the end.

Steve is silent for a few moments. Just as John is bracing himself for rejection, he feels a hand trailing down his chest, tracing the branches of the Y-cut; it doesn’t stop at his navel, but follows the sparse trail of hair all the way down until it reaches the belt of his fatigues. He looks down to meet those astonishingly blue eyes, daring to hope.

“Told you I wasn’t gonna be put off by a few scars.” Steve murmurs. “Now get those pants off, soldier.”

Relief makes John giddy. “Is that an order?”

“Damn straight.”


	6. T'Ain't No Sin

John wakes to a warm, solid weight pressed against his side and the sound of soft, contented breathing. He stays still and quiet for a moment, wondering if he's still dreaming; when a gentle but unmistakable snore reaches his ears, he smiles.

Definitely not a dream, then. At least, not one of the sort he's been having recently.

He eases himself up on his elbows, careful not to disturb Steve, and squints at the alarm clock on the bedside table. The numbers blur together before resolving themselves: _5.15 AM._

It takes a few seconds for that to sink in. He hasn't woken up on this side of five in the morning for months; normally he's showered, dressed, and walking the ship by four at the latest. Even if the nightmares don't wake him, there's always work to be done. Assaults on Cerberus facilities to plan, bickering politicians to negotiate with...

Looks like those things might have to wait a little longer today.

Steve stirs and mumbles something in his sleep before shifting closer, pressing his face into the crook of John's neck. His breath is warm on the skin there. John kisses the top of his head lightly, so as not to wake him up, and wonders a moment later if it was right. Is that the kind of thing people do after one night together? He honestly can't remember. Romance has been firmly at the bottom of his priority list for longer than he cares to admit, and it seems he's gotten rusty; even his flirting is worse than it used to be, which is saying something. The sole consolation is that Steve doesn't mind it too much, or at least he didn't seem to last night.

The thought of the previous night brings with it a wave of pleasant memories. John feels his smile grow, and not just for the sex (although it was damn good, considering how out of practice he is in that area as well.) It's been a long time since anyone touched him like they wanted _him_ , not just the guy on all the recruitment ads, and almost as long since he's actually wanted anyone to touch him or see him naked.

Now that his vision's cleared, the state of the cabin is becoming apparent. There are cases of thermal clips scattered across the floor, and a pair of black boxers hanging over the cables protruding from the port bulkhead. The fish tank's dimmed glow reveals smeared hand prints on the plasti-glass that he'll have to clean off before anyone else comes up here; if Vega sees them, neither he nor Steve will ever hear the end of it.

He's trying to remember how his leather jacket ended up draped over the top of the display cabinet when the alarm starts to shriek. He hits the snooze button, but the damage is done. Steve sits up against the headboard, letting the covers fall to his waist, and yawns hugely.

“Morning.”

“Mmm. Time 's it?”

“Nearly five-thirty. Sorry about the alarm.”

“Mmmf.” Steve scrubs a hand across his face and yawns again. “Too early.”

“Funny. I always had you figured for a morning person.”

The bleary-eyed look John receives in response is all the answer he needs. He falls back on the tired soldier's universal salve.

“Want some coffee?”

Steve gives a drowsy nod, pulling the covers back over himself. John swings his feet over the edge of the bed and stands up, glad that the under-floor heating still works.

“Back in a minute.”

He's almost to the door when he realises he's still completely naked. _That_ would be difficult to explain to the crew. They've accepted a living Prothean and an unshackled AI with surprisingly little complaint, but a commander who wanders the ship in the nude might be pushing it. He retrieves various items of his clothing from around the cabin, wondering briefly how one of his boots managed to wedge itself between the sofa and the wall, and slips on his rumpled t-shirt and creased jeans before heading to the elevator.

 

The mess hall is deserted, which isn't surprising since breakfast doesn't officially start until seven. John pads bare-footed over to the coffee machine on the kitchen counter, checks the filter out of habit, and curses under his breath. One of these days, he's going to track down whoever keeps forgetting to change the damn things after they use the machine and have a strongly-worded 'chat' with them.

The replacements aren't where he last saw them; with so many people using the kitchen every day, things get shuffled around a lot. John eventually finds them behind a stack of untouched cheese and vegetable omelette MREs (even in the middle of a galactic war, there are some things people just shouldn't be asked to eat.)

He changes the filter, slides a couple of mugs under the machine, and flicks the switch. Just as the grinder starts to whir, the mess hall lights bathe the kitchen in a harsh fluorescent glow.

“Finally broke that dry spell, huh?”

John turns to face the voice, squinting against the glare. Even though he may not be able to see Joker properly yet, he can practically _hear_ the man's grin.

“I have no idea what you're talking about.”

“Yeah, right.”

The after-images from the sudden light are starting to fade; now John can see Joker's grin as well as hear it.

“I thought you were a better bullshitter than that, Commander. I'm actually kind of disappointed in you.”

“Takes one to know one, I guess. What are you doing down here at this hour?”

Joker shrugs. “I had to hit the head. EDI's got the ship...if you're worried about that and not just trying to change the subject.”

Damn.

“That obvious?”

“Pretty much, yeah.” Joker scratches at his beard. “Not like it was hard to figure out anyway.”

John raises an eyebrow.

“You're down here at the ass-end of the morning in yesterday's clothes, making two cups of coffee. Come on, man. I may not be a people person, but that doesn't mean I'm _blind_.”

John laughs. “Apparently not.”

The coffee machine beeps cheerfully behind him, signalling that it's finished. He switches it off, changes the filter, and carefully picks up a mug in each hand before turning back to face Joker.

“Guess I should get back up to the helm. EDI's probably timing me or something..”

“Yeah. I should...” John gestures vaguely with one of the mugs. “Take these. You know.”

Joker grins wider.

“Yeah, I know. Say hi to Cortez from me.”

 

There's only a vague, faintly snoring lump under the covers when John steps back into the captain's cabin. The scent of coffee quickly permeates the whole room, and by the time he gets to the side of the bed the lump has shifted and magically transformed into Steve.

“Morning.” John says for the second time today, passing him one of the mugs. “Careful, it's-”

Steve takes a gulp of steaming coffee, followed by another. John watches in astonishment (and more than a little admiration) as he downs half of the drink before setting it to one side.

“- hot.”

Steve smiles. “Morning.” His voice is roughened around the edges by sleep, which makes it somehow even more attractive than usual. John feels the by now familiar flutter in his stomach as he sits down on the edge of the bed, taking a cautious sip of his own drink.

“You put your clothes back on?”

“Well, yeah. Streaking through the CIC isn't exactly high on my list of fun things to do. Imagine what would have happened if I spilled the coffee.”

Steve chuckles. “I meant your clothes from last night.”

“Oh.” John shrugs. “They were lying around. It was easier than going through my lockers and disturbing you all over again.”

He takes another sip, aware of Steve watching him with those astonishing eyes. When he puts the mug down, Steve reaches for his hand and twines their fingers together.

“Come here.”

 

The kiss is slow and sweet; it tastes vaguely of coffee as well as their combined morning breath, but John doesn't care. It would take a lot more than that to put him off, and Steve feels the same way judging by the pleased sounds he's making and the way his tongue is running along John's lips.

John closes his eyes and luxuriates in the kiss, sliding a hand around to the back of Steve's neck to deepen it. He can feel himself getting hard in his jeans (apparently the Cerberus rebuild included a teenager's libido as well), and when they break apart for air, Steve notices almost immediately. His smile turns sly and he slowly trails his free hand down John's chest, brushing lightly over his nipples and bringing him out in gooseflesh even through the t-shirt.

When that hand slips inside his jeans and starts rubbing him firmly, John arches into the touch and makes a small, involuntary sound.

“Everything good?”

“Keep that up and I won't last five minutes.” John manages breathlessly. Steve has settled into a squeezing, stroking rhythm that's threatening to make him come in his pants for the first time in years; he doesn't much care about that, but he doesn't want this to be over too soon.

“We've got an hour. Plenty of time, unless you were thinking about getting to work already.”

“God, no.”

Steve laughs. “Good.” He speeds up the movement of his hand. John groans and tips his head back, feeling the familiar tightening in his balls; he comes a moment later, open-mouthed and shuddering.

It's tempting to simply lie in the afterglow and fall asleep, but that wouldn't exactly be fair. John peels off the jeans and tosses them into the corner, then turns to Steve and kisses him again.

“Your turn.”


	7. Tango 'Til They're Sore

"So, you and Esteban, huh?"

It's a distraction tactic, and it works better than he'd hoped; Vega sees Shepard's expression soften as his eyes briefly flick over to the figure behind the weapons bench. Taking advantage of the moment, he throws a quick jab at the Commander's unprotected face-

 -and drives his fist straight into a brick wall. At least, that's what it feels like.

"Son of a _bitch_!"

 Vega yanks his hand back and glares at Shepard, who's still surrounded by a flickering blue aura. He flexes his fingers a few times, making sure they're all still there, and rolls his shoulder to ease the numbness that raced up his arm when he hit Shepard's barrier.

 "Biotics are cheating." It comes out sounding more petulant than Vega intended. That was a hell of a shock.

"So is trying to distract your opponent in the middle of a sparring match, Mr. Vega." Steve calls.

"We all know you're biased, Esteban."

Steve laughs. "True enough."

"I might have overdone it a bit." Shepard admits. "Anything damaged?"

Vega flexes his fingers again as the feeling returns. "Nah. Just my pride."

“Good.”

 

Shepard lets the barrier go; it dies down to a few sparks crawling over his skin, then nothing.

He rolls his shoulders and exhales deeply. Using biotics on a ship always feels different than using them groundside, for some reason. It’s probably something to do with the artificial gravity.

“You up for another round?”

Vega is bouncing on his toes like the world’s most muscular puppy. Shepard is briefly tempted to say ‘no’ just to see Vega pout, but there’s nobody else on the ship willing to spar with him. He nods.

“No biotics this time, though.”

“No biotics. I promise.”

“Good.”

Vega raises his fists.

“You end up with any bruises, Esteban can kiss ‘em better later.”

 

The sparring practice puts the germ of an idea in John's head. By the time he’s checked and double-checked his messages, fed the fish and the hamster, and cleaned the Carnifex pistol he keeps in the bedside drawer, he’s almost certain that it’s a good one. The only question is how to broach the subject to Steve.

He goes through half a dozen variations of the same message before settling on the simplest one:

_Coming up? Got an idea you might like to try out._

_-J_

It doesn’t take long for his omni-tool to flash with an equally simple reply.

_Sounds like fun. On my way._

_-S_

 

When Steve steps through the door of the captain’s cabin, John is waiting for him.

"That was fast."

John’s green eyes are sparkling with mischief, and his mouth is curled in the little half-smirk that always makes Steve want to kiss him. So he does, gripping John’s broad shoulders and pressing him back against the bulkhead. John slides his hands to Steve’s waist, then further down; his calloused fingers caress Steve’s ass through the fatigues, rubbing and squeezing. Steve moans into the kiss, but a moment later the moan turns into a strangled yelp of surprise when John gets a firmer grip and lifts him off his feet with no effort at all.

He hooks his legs around John’s waist and his arms around his neck, more for comfort than anything else; there’s no fear that he’ll be dropped. It took him a while to get used to John's cybernetically- enhanced strength, but it definitely has its advantages.

John elbows the lock on the door. When it blinks red he grins up at Steve, presses a kiss to his neck, and begins to walk towards the bed with no apparent sign of strain.

“Now you’re just showing off.”

John laughs. “You know you love it.”

There’s one very useful advantage to being carried like this; his hands are within easy reach of John’s amp port and the sensitive ridge of scar tissue around it. As they start to descend the steps into the bedroom area Steve trails his fingers across the scar, careful not to touch the amp itself, and feels John shudder beneath him. Pleased by that response, he does it again. This time his reward is a shaky sigh, a deeper shudder, and a sudden bright ripple of blue across the brown skin beneath his hands.

“ _God_." John's voice is low and throaty. Finding out about that particular sweet spot was one of the more entertaining moments of their first few nights together.

 

They've reached the bed. John eases himself down; they roll across the clean sheets in a tangle of limbs and urgent kisses that ends with Steve on top.

“So what was the big idea you wanted to tell me about?” he asks, slipping a hand down to rub the bulge in John's fatigues.

John's breath catches and his hips push up against the stroking hand. For a moment Steve thinks he isn't going to get an answer, that maybe this _was_ the idea, as unlikely as that seems.

“I just thought...maybe we could use biotics tonight?”

Now there's a possibility Steve hasn't really considered. He's seen John flare more than once in unguarded moments, but other than that they haven't spoken much about his abilities. There's been no real need to.

“I mean, I could use them on you. If you want."

Steve is quiet for a moment, letting his hand continue its slow, teasing rubbing as he thinks. It's not as though their current sex life could ever be described as 'boring'. His own penchant for confined spaces is the least of it. Having John as an enthusiastic, inventive partner means his fantasies rarely go unfulfilled, and vice versa; adding biotics to the mix sounds like it could be a _lot_ of fun, with potential for hilarity if it goes wrong (which is never a bad thing when it comes to sex, at least in Steve's opinion.)

He reaches his decision.

“All right.”

 

 John's delighted smile lights up his whole face. He pulls Steve down for a quick kiss before rolling him over and straddling him, knees on either side of his legs.

“If anything I do makes you uncomfortable, tell me to stop.” John is still smiling, but his tone is serious. Steve nods.

“Good.”

John's biotics flare into life. A moment later Steve feels a tug on his shirt and looks down to see it being pulled upward by blue tendrils of energy, baring his stomach and chest to the cool air of the cabin.

“Raise your arms.”

Steve can see the faint concentration lines between John's brows. He complies; there's brief darkness as his shirt slides off his arms and over his head. It falls to the side, forgotten, when John leans down to kiss him again.

“You okay?”

 “Not if taking my shirt off is _all_ you're planning to do.”

The high-pitched humming right at the edge of hearing suddenly intensifies; he feels his boots loosen a few seconds before they're pulled off altogether, along with his socks. He kicks them off the bed and wriggles his bared toes.

“You've done this before.”

“Yeah, a few times. Always with other biotics.” John trails kisses prickling with static down his neck and chest. “I think I like it better with you, though.”

“Oh really? And why's that?”

 

John raises his head. His grin is wicked and edged with sparks.

“You don't know what to expect.”

 

The blue aura around John brightens until it's almost hard to look at. Steve has a split second of concern before he arches and bites his lip at the sudden sensation of phantom hands brushing across his skin, toying with his nipples, and pulling the zipper on his pants down all at once.

“You've... _ah..._ you've been holding out on me.” he manages, somewhat accusingly. “We could've been...”

 _We could've been doing this from the start_ is what he means to say, but John doesn't give him the chance. A tingling, very real hand slips inside his fatigues and starts stroking him through his boxers, stealing his breath.

“Enjoying yourself?”

“ _Definitely_.”

“Good.” John's lips graze the coarse trail of dark hair below Steve's navel.“Thought you might be.” He tugs Steve's pants down and frees his erection from his boxers, giving a small laugh at his helpless moan.

Steve lets his head drop back onto the pillow as John's hand speeds up and the phantom fingers continue their work elsewhere on his body.

“Got any more tricks like that?”

A chuckle vibrates against his abdomen, sending a pleasing jolt of heat up his spine. “Yep. Hold on.”

 

The sensation intensifies a hundredfold as John takes him in his mouth. Steve tries to hold himself back, thinking _carbon scoring, muzzle wear, shuttle specs,_ but when John delicately flicks his tongue across the head, it's all for nothing.

“Shit. Sorry.”

He twitches as John licks at his oversensitive flesh, cleaning him off, and plants a kiss at the tip before drawing back.

“About what? Pretty sure that's what's supposed to happen.”

“Yeah, but not that soon. And you haven't...”

John's smile is rueful. “That ship sailed a while back. Too much blood being used for other things.”

As if to remind them both of the physical cost of biotics, John's stomach gives a long and complicated growl that lasts for several seconds. Steve fumbles in the bedside drawer for a couple of meal replacement bars and hands them to him.

Watching John eat is like a magic trick-one moment you see the food, the next it's been engulfed and you're left wondering if it was ever there to begin with. Both of the bars are gone inside half a minute.

“Feel better?”

“Yeah. Those things taste _awful_.” John grimaces, brushing the last crumbs from around his mouth. “Worth it, though.”

“Definitely.”

 


	8. Shift Change

"Need help looking over your reports tonight...again?"

They're alone in the shuttle bay, for once, but Steve keeps his voice low anyway; he's learned over the past few weeks just how _well_ Shepard responds to this particular tone. It has the desired effect. Shepard's mouth curls up in a delighted smirk and he takes a couple of steps closer.

"You know, I think I just might. Lot of big words in the last one. Wouldn't want to send Hackett a badly-spelled report, would we?"

"No, _sir_."

Shepard's smile widens, becoming the mischievous grin Steve rarely sees outside the privacy of the captain's cabin. "Then I'll see you after shift change, Lieutenant." he murmurs, leaning in to press a kiss to Steve's lips. This close, Steve can smell the ozone that clings to Shepard like permanent cologne-a side effect of near constant use of biotics. Before all this, he associated that scent with fried electronics and hours of extra work on his Trident; if someone had told him that one day he'd actually find it _arousing_ , he'd have laughed in their face.

He slides his arms around Shepard's waist and deepens the kiss, drawing a pleased rumble from his lover and a light nip to his lower lip. Shepard brings a hand up to cup Steve's jaw, stroking callused fingers along his cheek.

The familiar sound of the descending elevator breaks the moment. Steve pulls away reluctantly, letting his hands linger on Shepard's waist for a few more teasing moments before releasing him and taking a few steps back. The heavy-lidded, half-dazed expression on Shepard's face (something Steve treasures whenever he manages to induce it) vanishes in the instant before the elevator doors slide open to reveal James Vega, yawning hugely and stretching.

Vega isn't dumb, no matter how hard he likes to pretend otherwise. Steve can practically see the gears turning in his head as he takes in the scene in the shuttle bay and a broad smile slowly spreads across his face.

"I'm not, uh, _interrupting_ anything, am I?" Vega's smile says _I know_ exactly _what I'm interrupting,_ and Steve knows he'll probably never hear the last of this.

Funnily enough, he doesn't really care.


	9. Hidden Talents

Cinnamon and maple syrup are the last things Steve expects to smell when he steps off the elevator onto the crew deck. The combined scents take him instantly back to his childhood, bringing back memories of sitting at the kitchen table with his mother and waiting eagerly for dessert. Compared to the rather more ... questionable smells that normally come out of the ship's kitchen, this is pure ambrosia. Not to mention very odd, considering that pretty much the entire crew is currently on the Citadel for shore leave.

Steve's curiosity is thoroughly piqued. He lets the elevator door slide shut behind him and starts to walk quietly around the bulkhead, hoping to catch a glimpse of the mysterious chef; if nothing else, this will make a good story to tell Vega later.

_"Son of a-"_

Mystery solved. Even if he _didn't_ recognise the voice, there's only one person on the Normandy who routinely cuts himself off mid-curse. (Breaking yourself of a notoriously foul mouth after running in a street gang for years isn't easy, or so a little bird told him once.)

Steve steps out into the mess hall, already preparing a wisecrack about _hiding your light under a bushel_ , and stops dead in his tracks. He can feel the smile tugging at the corner of his mouth.

John Shepard, savior of the Citadel, is padding around the Normandy's kitchen wearing only lumpy socks, blue PT shorts, and a faded Blasto t-shirt that Steve hasn't seen before. The kitchen looks like the site of an extremely localised explosion; John himself isn't faring much better. There's a conspicuous amount of flour in his close-cropped hair, and most of Blasto's head is obscured by what looks suspiciously like a large egg stain.

Despite the mess, John looks nearly as relaxed as Steve's ever seen him. He's humming snatches of a vaguely familiar tune, keeping time with the spoon in his left hand and occasionally drumming the fingertips of his right hand on the countertop. Steve's almost tempted to take video with his omni-tool to preserve this moment. If nothing else, it would be proof that the rarely-seen creature known as Domestic Shepard actually exists.

Instead, he takes a few steps closer and deliberately clears his throat. John doesn't jump, much to his disappointment.

"You call that liberty wear, Commander?"

"Nah, I call it 'doing my laundry while the crew's ashore' wear. Think it'll catch on?"

"If you leave out the flour in your hair and the egg stains, sure." Steve is only half-joking. He's seen John both fully armored-up and naked, and somehow this in-between state manages to hold his interest just as well. It's probably something to do with all the warm brown skin on display, not to mention the fact that blue is most _definitely_ John's colour.

John laughs and rakes a hand across his buzz cut, which only makes the flour situation worse.

"So what are you cooking?" Steve nods towards the oven, even though he already has a sneaking suspicion from the smell alone.

"Sweet potato pie. It was _supposed_ to be a surprise for when you came back. Not much of one now."

"No, I was...pretty surprised. You've been holding out on me. I didn't know you could cook like this."

John shrugs. "I'm no master chef, but I do alright most of the time. Bit out of practice these days." He drops the spoon in the sink with a clatter and wipes his hands on a nearby towel.

"Better not let the crew find out. You'll end up getting roped into cooking for everyone."

John's rueful smile tells Steve everything he needs to know.

"...You already did, didn't you."

"Kind of. There's not that many people on the ship, and I had enough to go around. Can't show favouritism, you know." John adds virtuously.

"Unless you're letting the rest of the crew bunk in your quarters when I'm on shift, I think we passed favouritism a while back."

"True enough."

Comfortable silence reigns for a few moments before Steve's curiosity gets the better of him.

"So why'd you do this, anyway?" He gestures at the bomb-site kitchen and the oven. "I'm pretty sure you could get sweet potato pie on the Citadel, even with the procurement chains in chaos. You didn't have to go to all this effort."

John shrugs again. "I just wanted to do something nice for you, that's all. I figured you'd go ashore like the rest of the crew and I could surprise you when you got back."

"Dinner in your quarters?"

"Yeah. You still up for it?"

John's green eyes are hopeful as the question hangs in the air between them; for an answer, Steve grasps the bottom of the Blasto shirt and pulls him in for a kiss. When they finally part for air, breathless and laughing, John rests their foreheads together.

"Keep this up, Lieutenant, and you might end up getting dinner and a show."


	10. Ladies and Gentlemen We Are Floating in Space

For one long, awful moment, John wants nothing more than to take his helmet off.

Cold, clammy sweat is prickling and drying on the back of his neck, trapped by the helmet's hard seals. It would be so easy just to flick the switch, yank it off, and wipe himself clean...

"Shepard?"

So easy just to...

_"Shepard?"_

The concern in Tali's voice is evident even over the suit's tinny transmitter. John drops his hand from his neck ( _when did_ that _get there?_ ) and clears his throat more for effect than anything else.

"I'm fine, Tali." His voice is steady and clear enough to surprise even himself. "Just...it's a hell of a view." That much, at least, isn't a lie. He can see Rannoch from here, if he focuses solely on the planet and not the stars pulsing and glimmering in the distance.

"Better than a vid?"

"Much." He has to get moving. If the others don't already know something's wrong, they'll figure it out if he spends much longer frozen to the same spot.

_Focus. Breathe. Get your shit together, marine._ He starts to walk again, lifting and planting mag-booted feet that feel as though some sadistic TO strapped lead weights to the bottom of them.

**Clank** - _clunk_.

John keeps his gaze focused firmly ahead. There's sweat dripping into his eyes, but mercifully the perverse temptation to remove his helmet doesn't return.

**Clank** - _clunk_.

The sound of his feet echoing on the bottom of the ruined docking tube is a lie, John knows. A good lie, fed to him by auditory emulators in a well-meaning attempt to keep him comfortable, but a lie nonetheless. In space, you can't even hear _yourself_ screaming when a broken helmet welcomes in the vacuum like an old friend-

**Clank** - _clunk_.

_No_. He can't let himself think about that too much. God knows the dreams are bad enough already-

The docking tube suddenly lurches under him, breaks in two beneath his feet, and John is weightless.

( _He's choking, scrabbling at his trailing air hose, trying to breathe space with collapsing lungs..._ )

The stars wheel sickeningly around him. He has time for a single panicked thought- _I'm sorry, Steve_ -before his magboots find purchase on the other side of the docking tube, grounding him once again.

He has to run the suit diagnostic three times before he's satisfied there's no breach, ignoring the blinking light on his helmet's display that warns him his vitals are pushing into the red zone; the dull thunder of his own heartbeat in his ears is enough to tell him that.

"Shepard-" EDI's voice this time.

"I'm fine." Lying to an AI who routinely monitors the vital signs of the whole crew isn't the smartest thing John's ever done, but it's more for his benefit than hers. He needs to say the words out loud to reassure himself that he's here, he's alive, he's not spinning out into the black and leaving Steve behind to mourn another man.

Silence on the other end of the line.

"I'm _fine_."

"Very well, Shepard." He can tell she's humouring him, but that's better than any of the other options. "There is another docking tube at these coordinates. If you can override the controls, the rest of the team should be able to board the dreadnought."

"Thanks, EDI."

He's fine. He has to be. There's no other choice.

 

 

John doesn't eat with the crew that night. He takes a couple of meal replacement bars from the hoard in his cabin and swallows them mechanically instead, barely even wincing at the terrible taste.

The battered helmet he retrieved from Alchera is back on his desk; it was with the rest of his possessions in the cargo hold when he took control of the Normandy again. John takes it off the stand and turns it over in his hands, ignoring the black flakes that drift down onto his clean bedsheets. Someone (probably whoever was assigned to retrieve his corpse) cut the trailing air hose that killed him. The remaining stub juts out raggedly from the port at the back. John runs his fingers over it, then over the faint lines that are all that remains of the N7 brand.

The helmet is scorched, warped and dented, but in surprisingly good shape considering it went through re-entry before hitting a planet. A fleeting thought- _I should probably write to the manufacturers and offer them a recommendation_ -brings a harsh chuckle from John's throat. What would he even say? 'Hey, good job making the helmet that kept my brain more or less intact! Want me to record an advertisement for you, by any chance?'

"What's so funny?"

Startled, John looks up. Steve is standing at the top of the steps that lead down to the main bedroom area. His arms are folded tight across his chest, and that familiar worry line is back between his brows.

John didn't even hear the door open. He struggles for an explanation, saying something lame as Steve crosses the room and sits down on the bed; it's only when Steve gently prises the helmet from him and sets it down on the bedside table that he realises his hands are shaking. Steve covers them with his own, winding his fingers between John's trembling ones and grasping them tightly.

"What happened today?" Steve's voice is low and gentle, but there's an undercurrent of concern. "Don't tell me you're fine, because I know you're not."

John swallows hard and clasps Steve's hands tighter. He raises his eyes to meet his lover's achingly blue ones. "How much do you know about what happened when the first Normandy went down?"

The story pours out of him in fits and starts after that, as though it's been waiting all this time to be told. Steve doesn't interrupt, doesn't ask questions or probe for more details; he just listens, waiting patiently when John chokes or stammers.

"I tried so hard to fix the air hose, even though I knew it was pointless. And then..." John trails off as he realises there are tears on his cheeks. He reaches up to wipe them away and Steve pulls him close in a fierce embrace. John buries his face between Steve's neck and shoulder, smelling engine oil and gunmetal and starch on his skin; Steve kisses the top of his head and rubs his back soothingly until the shaking stops.

"This is the first time you've ever told anyone about that, isn't it?"

"Yeah. There's more to it, but I don't think I can...."

"It's alright, John. Whenever you're ready."

_I love you_. John resolves to say the words soon, no matter how much they make his throat tighten and his pulse race. _I don't know what I did to deserve you, but I love you._


	11. Spite and Malice

 

“Commander Shepard?” The balding scientist steps forward and extends his hand. “Doctor Gavin Archer. We...met on Project Overlord.”

Vega sees Shepard's eyes narrow briefly as he stares at Archer's hand as though it's something disgusting, keeping his own arms firmly crossed. After a moment, Archer gives up and withdraws it.

"That's one way of putting it.”

“Yes, well, I've tried to put all that behind me since-”

“Not interested.” Shepard says bluntly.

Vega's never heard the Commander speak like this to _anyone_ before; even when he gets angry he usually just becomes more and more formal, icily polite and distant.

 Archer sighs. “I know you must think I'm some kind of monster-”

“Correct.”

“-but I was hoping you might have news from Grissom Academy. Is David safe?”

“It's a little late to start worrying about his safety now. I have work to do, and I'm not even going to _pretend_ it was good to see you again.”

The undisguised venom and contempt in Shepard's voice is startling. Vega raises an eyebrow at Alenko as the Commander turns and stalks away up the nearby stairs and Archer slumps with his head in his hands.

“Any idea what the hell that was about, Major?”

“None, Lieutenant.” Alenko's expression is troubled as he watches Shepard's retreating figure. “Maybe we'll find out later.”

 

 

 “I'm sending you a large team of scientists. They're all Cerberus defectors. Keep them safe.”

“Will do, and I'll put them straight to work on the Crucible. Good work.”

John hesitates. “There is one thing, sir.”

Hackett's digital ghost looks at him expectantly.

“One of the scientists is Gavin Archer. David Archer's brother.”

“I'm familiar with the name.”

“If you can keep them as far apart as possible, I'd appreciate it. David's made a lot of progress at Grissom Academy, and I don't want his brother to spoil that for him.”

“Understood, Commander. It's a massive project. I'm sure we can find some way to keep them away from each other.”

“Thank you. Nothing more, sir.”

“Keep me updated. Hackett out.”

 

 

 “So what's the Commander's problem with this Archer guy?” Vega asks over dinner.

“Wait. You mean _Gavin_ Archer?” Vega's not too good at reading turian faces yet, but he's pretty sure Vakarian's eyebrows just shot up. “You met him?”

“Yeah, he was down there with the other scientists.”

“And the guy's still in one piece? Got all his arms and legs, not suffering from any sudden bullet wounds, that kind of thing?” Joker interjects.

“Yeah, why...”

“Wow. Must have caught Shepard on a _really_ good day.”

“Or maybe he just didn't want to waste the bullet.”

This is going over Vega's head. He puts his fork down on the plastic tray. “Uh, no offense, but that doesn't really answer my question. What the hell did this guy do to piss Shepard off _that_ badly? He mentioned something called Project Overlord...”

Vakarian and Joker exchange a glance.

“You're the one who was down there.” Joker sits back in his chair, fiddling with the brim of his hat. “ _You_ tell them. Just don't blame me if Shepard finds out and puts us all on decaf for a month or something.”

“That bad?” Vega asks.

“Worse.” Vakarian hesitates for a moment before speaking again. “We met Archer on Project Overlord. It was a Cerberus initiative.”

Vega sees Alenko's eyebrows rise at those words; the major leans forward, his attention caught.

“Was?”

“Yeah. We shut it down.”

“But you were still with Cerberus back then, right? So the Illusive Man just _let_ you take down one of his operations?”

Vakarian flicks his mandibles (Vega is pretty sure that's what those are called.) “Wasn't much he could do about it. We were long gone before anyone turned up to clean house.”

“So what happened?”

“They were trying to control the geth by interfacing a human mind with a VI. I'm not clear on all the details, but it didn't work. The thing they made slaughtered almost everyone in the facilities.”

“Of course it did.” Joker says airily. “They ever have a project that _didn't_ turn around and bite them straight in the ass?”

 

Vakarian ignores him. “We had to fight our way through geth and drones, all while the VI was screaming at us, shutting doors to herd us into places it wanted us to go, that kind of thing. Creepy. And that's not a word I use lightly these days.”

“Eventually we got to the control centre, and the VI...did something to Shepard. Still not sure what, exactly. He's never spoken to me about it.”

He taps his claws on the edge of the table. “Krios and I were locked in the control room for nearly half an hour. When we finally got out, we found...well. Maybe it's best if you see it for yourself. EDI?”

“Yes?”

Hearing the AI's voice coming out of thin air (or speakers in the walls, which amounts to basically the same thing) is slightly unsettling to Vega; he's gotten used to holding conversations with her mech body as it wanders around the ship.

“Do you still have the recordings from the end of Project Overlord?”

“Of course. One moment. I will put together the relevant footage.”

 

One of the vid-screens facing the mess table flickers into life. At first, Vega doesn't understand exactly what he's seeing. It's obviously footage from a helmet-mounted camera, probably Shepard's, but there's something moving in the middle of that metal contraption-

The image resolves itself suddenly, like a hideous version of the magic eye puzzles Vega used to love as a kid; it becomes a man, twitching and shuddering, suspended in mid-air and surrounded by a halo of metal and tubes.

' _Quiet...please, make it stop...'_ The man's voice is exhausted and pleading.

“God.” Vega breathes. He can't take his eyes off the clamps pinning the man's eyes open, for some reason; it's such a small detail compared to the rest of the torture being inflicted on him, but it seems like the final indignity.

Vakarian nods grimly. “And that's not the worst of it.”

“How the hell can _that_ get any worse?” Vega demands.

He gets his answer a few seconds later, when the image judders slightly and Doctor Archer appears on the screen with a gun raised.

'- _leave him! He's too valuable!'_ The sharp report of gunfire echoes through the mess hall.

Alenko shakes his head slowly, a disbelieving expression on his face.

The barrel of a pistol appears in the camera's view, but quickly disappears as Shepard lashes out instead. Video-Archer reels back, clutching his bloodied face.

' _You broke my-'_

' _ **I don't care**_ _.'_

 The utter cold fury in Shepard's voice makes the hair on the back of Vega's neck prickle.

' _Stand in that corner. Make a move towards David, and I will shoot you. Try to leave, and I will shoot you. Try to justify this to me one more time, and I will shoot you. This...project...is over. I'm taking him somewhere safe.”_

“ _Where?”_ _  
_

_'Grissom Academy. The staff will be warned about you and Cerberus. If I ever find out you've tried to contact David, or if you even come into the same system as him, this bullet will be waiting for you. Then we'll see who's valuable.'  
_

 

“Wait. Grissom Academy?” Vega tears his eyes away from the screen. “Didn't we meet a guy called David there?”

Vakarian nods. “That was him. He looked a lot better.”

“Funny what nearly a year of _not_ being constantly tortured by your own brother can do for somebody.” Joker adds.

For some reason, Vega hadn't made the connection between the surnames. “No wonder the Commander hates him.”

“Yeah, pretty sure he's earned himself a permanent spot on Shepard's shit-list. Not exactly a place I'd want to be.”

“You can say _that_ again.”

 

 

John steps forward, brings up a barrier around his hands and arms, and delivers a vicious series of jabs to Vega's punching bag. He can feel Steve's concerned gaze on his back, but he needs this; not throttling Gavin Archer on the spot took a lot of self-control.

Even now, he has to pull his punches to avoid breaking the bag. It's one of the few times he regrets his augmented strength, since it means he can never really cut loose unless he's on a battlefield. If Vega ever realised just how much John is holding back when they spar, he'd probably sulk for a week.

A fine trickle of sand starts to pour from the bottom of the bag. Damn it. Now he'll have to either fix it himself or buy Vega a new one.

“Hey.”

Startled, he turns around. Steve is behind him; somehow he managed to cross the shuttle bay without John noticing.

“Long day?”

“You could say that.” John lets the barrier drop. Without the biotics or the adrenaline to keep him going, he realises just how tired he is.

“Shift change is in two minutes. We can be up in your quarters before Vega's halfway to the elevator. What do you say?” Steve's smile is warm.

“Sounds good to me.” John says, reaching out to take his hand.

 

 


	12. One Night At A Time

Steve knows about the nightmares. It'd be hard not to, given how often he sleeps in the captain's cabin these days - not every night, but often enough that James has more or less taken over his bunk in the crew quarters.

The first time he was woken by John thrashing and choking next to him, he suggested going to Chakwas. He knows better than that now.

The dreams come frequently, denying both of them hours of much-needed sleep. He's grown used to sitting up late with John and watching _Blasto_ reruns on the display case vid-screen, or playing endless hands of cards; anything to take John's mind off the war or dying alone outside his burning ship. (Steve's practically word-perfect on _The Jellyfish Stings_ and _Enkindle This!_ by now, something he never thought he'd be able to say.)

In a way, the loud dreams are the easier ones - for him, _not_ John- because they're impossible to miss. The sudden shifting of the bed usually wakes him, and if that doesn't work the plaintive noises John makes are enough to do the trick.

 The quiet nightmares are worse because Steve can sleep right through them, finding John drenched in sweat and shivering beside him in the morning. Once he woke to the sight of John standing by the desk, still asleep, holding his broken helmet and turning it over and over in his hands; that incident unsettled Steve badly enough that he insisted the helmet was placed in storage the next day.

 

John was already half-asleep when Steve came up to the cabin, tired from the day's long slog through a Cerberus base. He was peaceful for long enough that Steve started to think it might just be one of the good nights.

It's clear now that was a mistake.

John is twitching and making small, unhappy sounds in the back of his throat. His fists are clenching and unclenching, grasping handfuls of the bedsheets hard enough that Steve is surprised they haven't torn; he's breathing in short, rasping gasps, and his eyes are flicking rapidly from side to side behind closed lids.

“John?” Steve places a hand on his shoulder, feeling the heat of his skin through the thin shirt he wore to bed. “Come on, wake up...”

It takes almost a full minute of gentle shaking and calling his name before John's eyes finally snap open, vivid green and confused as he stares up at the ceiling.

“It's all right. I'm here.” Steve murmurs, stroking his scarred back soothingly. “I'm here.”

John gives a ragged sigh and shifts closer, resting his head on Steve's chest. For a moment, there's no sound except their breathing and the ever-present background hum of the fish tank.

“Don't know why you put up with this sometimes.” John mumbles against Steve's skin.

There are a thousand possible answers Steve could give him, starting with the fact that he knows what it's like to deal with nightmares alone. Now's not the right time, though, so he simply says “Want to watch a movie?”

John nods. Steve presses a few buttons on his omni-tool and cues _Enkindle This!_ on the vid-screen, making sure to turn the volume up. As the familiar opening narration washes over them, he kisses John's temple and makes a promise to himself.

When the awful, crushing pressure of this war is finally off John's shoulders, they're going somewhere warm and sunny together. No Spectre duties, no constant demands from the Alliance or random people they happen to come across; just the two of them on a beach, eating good food and drinking good beer (or possibly ryncol in John's case, although Steve doubts there _is_ such a thing as good ryncol) for at least a month.

They just need to get through this first. One night at a time.


	13. Haze

The Crucible fires with a shattering roar.

John grabs at the console for support as the metal platform beneath his feet jolts and groans in protest, but his fingers are slippery with blood. He falls and lands hard; the impact sends a fresh rush of pain through him, and for a while he simply lies on his back in the ringing silence.

A Reaper drifts past overhead, a sharp black outline against the stars. It’s twitching spasmodically, its legs curling in towards its segmented body and jerking out again sharply as red energy flickers across it. John finds the sight absurdly funny; he’d laugh if he could spare the breath. A distant, clinical part of his mind wonders if he’s going to die (again) and decides that maybe it won’t be so bad this time-

‘John? _Shepard_?’

 

_Steve_.

John pulls himself into a sitting position against the console, hissing through his teeth as the movement brings another flare of pain. It takes him three attempts to hit the voice link on his omni-tool.

“ ‘M here.” he slurs thickly. He turns his head, spits blood onto the platform, and repeats more clearly “I’m here.”

‘ _Thank God_.’ The utter relief in Steve’s voice is clear even over the crackling comm link. “ _It’s over, John. The Reapers are down_.”

“I know, I saw-” He breaks off, coughing and wincing at the stab in his chest. Broken ribs, at the very least.

‘ _You’re hurt_.’ It isn’t a question. ‘ _Stay where you are. I’m bringing a shuttle to you_.’

 

Even smiling hurts. John closes his eyes and drifts; he’s vaguely aware that the voice link is still open and Steve is barking orders at someone, but it all seems to be happening very far away. Shock, the clinical part of his mind supplies helpfully before it fades into the fog that seems to be consuming the rest of his thoughts.

‘ _John? Come on, stay with me_.’ There’s an edge to Steve’s voice that John recognises even in his fogged-in state: fear. His tongue feels thick and useless in his mouth, but not responding is unthinkable.

“Not … not going anywhere. Coming back. Promised.”

Steve gives a choked laugh. ‘ _Yes, you did_.’

“Still in one. Piece.” It’s getting harder to string sentences together in the haze. There’s something else he needs to say, though.

“Love you. I …”

 

If Steve replies, it’s lost in the noise as the shuttle descends nearby. John looks up groggily as a swarm of medics bears down on him, with Dr Chakwas at the forefront; she shakes her head at the sight of him and directs the others to start cutting him out of his charred armour. Even when the chestpiece comes off and they move him onto a stretcher, it takes three of them to carry him back to the shuttle.

Steve is waiting there, his face drawn and anxious. He stays well out of the way while the medics are setting up the transfusion kits and IV lines; when the crowd around the stretcher lessens a little, he comes forward and takes John’s hand as his eyes begin to drift closed.

The last thing John knows before darkness takes him is the sensation of Steve’s thumb rubbing small, comforting circles on his palm.


End file.
